Free Book Excerpts

One man’s journey to reaffirm his faith in God.

Excerpt

1. Unguided

The Chattooga’s ice cold waters blanketed our skin, but as the adrenaline pumped through our veins, no one voiced concern. The brilliant summer sun loomed above, warming our chilled bodies and created cascades of diamonds across the water’s surface. Fueled by gravity and pure mountain springs, the Chattooga River calmly begins its flow down nature’s geologically defined course. On that day, like every other day, it would gather its violent inertial forces, gaining strength and power with each mile. The calmness would eventually turn into a frothy, mad, turbulent stream which poured over boulders, resembling the claws of a great beast. Jagged rocks stared back like a mouth full of fangs as the river’s saliva sprayed and foamed. A thing of beauty and worthy of great respect, the river proved itself over and over again. It never disappointed and always kept us guessing.

“Paddle right! Paddle right! Stop … Stop paddling! Hold it … Hold it … Everyone-paddle forward! Paddle forward! Here we go! Left side-paddle back hard! Everyone-paddle hard forward! Hard forward-three more strokes! Awesome job guys! …YES!”

“Let’s paddle up there to the right and take a break. I need to size up the next rapid. This will be the last one for the morning and then that should take us to lunch. This last one’s gonna be a challenge.”

Forming the boundary between Georgia and South Carolina, the Chattooga’s winding course is a Mecca for thrill seekers and nature lovers. The movie Deliverance was filmed there in 1971 which attracted paddlers from all over-some unprepared or unaware of the many hidden dangers. In 1974, Congress designated it as a “Wild and Scenic” river which protected and preserved the bordering wilderness areas. Nourished by streams and tributaries along the way, the Chattooga’s wrath-filled waters end as quietly as they begin. From its origins within the North Carolina Mountains, the river meanders some 57 miles and then joins the still waters of Georgia’s Lake Tugalo.

Paddling and floating all morning, we presented our air-filled vessel to the last rapid of Section III-the famous Bull Sluice. This rapid had a 14-foot drop followed by 6-foot and 4-foot successive drops.

Hopping out of our raft, we surveyed the scene thoroughly.

“Well, what do you think, Clark? You want to portage around?” My friend Dave Merwin peered at the rushing current. His voice expressed an edge of doubt.

“I think we can take it. The water’s moving faster than usual and … ah, come on … we’ve been down the Sluice several times. May have to paddle harder. Time things sooner, but we can do it.”

“Alright, Carmichael-if you say so.”

“Come on, Dave. What’s wrong?”

“Ah, nothing. Just got a weird feeling about this trip. Have you noticed how high the water is today? No, something just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“It’ll be okay. I assure you.”

“Like I said-if you say so.”

We would finish the morning with that final plunge and take a lunch break afterwards. Two rafts ahead of us, the other groups had completed a perfect run through the rapid. Most people portage around that point in the river, but not us. We loved the rush, the thrill of danger and the irresistible call, battling the raging blue vein of nature.

Thrill seekers they were; I never knew a more daring and crazy set of men. Though I may have questioned some of their motives, I never questioned their courage and annual commitment to our trip. Keith Myers came for the danger and to prove that age had not reduced or reversed his masculine strength or endurance. Jeff Whatley came to spend time with his son, but also to avoid a long, largely ignored honey-do list. Jerry Larson was there for the camaraderie and support; he recently faced a nasty divorce just over a month before. Several were looking for a new challenge, a way to escape life’s ruts and routines. Still, a few were simply there to check one more item off the bucket list.

Why was I there? Truth be known, probably for some of the reasons aforementioned, but I would never admit that to anyone. I loved rafting and how it made me feel inside. I never felt so alive and never felt so much control of my being, my joy and vitality. It was me against nature, and I liked to win.

“All right, Pastor Clark. Let’s do it.” Jake, one of our older youth, proudly swaggered to the raft. His lean muscular frame brimmed with raw energy; it was contagious. The young man’s spunk inspired a last minute adrenaline burst. We launched the raft and floated toward the graceful chaos of the Sluice. The rapid’s roar grew steadily-as did our speed-down the great churning, unimpeded stream. To our right, towered a mammoth boulder, and below the rapid to the left lurked Decapitation Rock.

“Okay. Aim the raft back toward Georgia. Left side-give me two forward strokes. One. Two. Now-all paddle forward four strokes!” Everyone responded perfectly to my commands.

Although not a pro, I had navigated this river countless times. Year after year, I brought our men and youth down this mighty course. Year after year, fathers and sons added to their scrapbooks and etched lasting memories in their minds. My old summer job as an Ocoee River guide had taught me well. The Chattooga was a good bit different however. It brought new surprises with each trip; nothing about that river stayed exactly the same. Yes, we had capsized before, but fortunately no one ever suffered loss of life or serious injury. Thank God. The famous rapid presently facing us was similar to many others, and I was sure of myself. A surety that bred confidence. A confidence that we would plow through unscathed.

“Okay, guys. Everyone-give me three forward strokes. Lean in toward the center and hold on.”

I studied the currents direction and steered our raft toward the rapid’s edge. The Sluice grabbed us, violently dragging the raft straight down the rushing waters. Committed. No turning back. Done. It was a perfect run, and before we knew it, we had caught up to the rest of our group who were resting and devouring their lunch along the bank.

Dave looked back at me, and I couldn’t resist saying, “You still got that weird feeling? Was that a blast-or what?”

Dave answered back, “I knew we could do it, but don’t forget we haven’t seen anything yet. That last section will be the test.” He just had to remind me.

“Okay, let’s not think about it for now,” I said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

“Sounds good to me. This old man could sure use a rest.” Dave wiped his brow and then his glasses. He tried not to show it, but the look of concern could not be erased.

Lunch lasted about an hour, followed by my traditional group devotion. Oh, the joy. Each year I savored this trip, especially the devotional time. Our annual adventure attracted fathers and sons, not only from our church, but from all over the community. Approximately ten years before, Dave and I had decided to make this trip an annual tradition. An annual quest. The first time there was only six of us and one raft. Ten trips later that one raft transformed into eight or around fifty-six people.

Nature abounded with messages about God and messages about man-some messages just have to be experienced. The Bible itself was littered with stories from the natural world. So it was important that I expressed my thoughts the right way, leveraging our outdoor setting and our experiences together. I couldn’t have asked for a better setting or a better group of men.

“Okay, everyone gather around. Come on guys.” Using hand gestures and eye contact, I directed the boys and their dads to sit down and face me. This took time; the herding of cats might have been a little easier. Some were reluctant to participate, and some were surprised we even did a devotion. But I had them-where else could they go? In the corner of my eye, I spied one young man lagging behind the group. His tall, lanky frame stood out among the rest of the crowd. He moved slowly, as if he was dragging an invisible weight behind him.

“Okay men, time for the devotional.” I paused. “Come on Luke-you’re holding up progress?” My son Luke broke into a trot with his usual playful grin. I tried to shoot him a patient glance as he quickly found his place in the group. He thought I hadn’t noticed, but I always did. A pastor’s son always lived to endure both suspicion and high expectations; it was a great duty. A duty fraught with many struggles.

Luke endured those struggles well, but not without some failures. Many pastors chose to ignore those struggles or wished them away, but I didn’t. I had seen too many young men in Luke’s position grow up resenting their fathers and living a rebellious life. Several families and ministries have been destroyed by a severe lack of priority and patience. Patience. Discretion. I tried to carefully exercise both with God’s first gift from the womb. Luke was special.

Maintaining a deep devotion for God, the boy-or rather young man-modeled the Christian walk. A born leader, he was very active with the youth ministry. Every Sunday morning, he led the youth band and inspired the young people to worship God. An able guitarist, Luke possessed a natural talent on loan from the Most High. This talent had opened many doors for him to minister. It attracted many admirers. He made friends with most of the other boys and even reached out to the loners in the group-the outcasts.

“Hey! … stop! Cut it out!” One of those outcasts looked back searching for a stealthy sweetgum ball thrower. “Whoever’s doing that needs to stop. Those things have points on ‘em-you know?” Some younger boys answered back with farting sounds blaring from their armpits. That raised some laughs from a few of the dads-including myself.

I brought two fingers to my mouth and whistled loudly. It worked. Silence-finally. The boys stared at me with their tired eyes, and I started into my mini sermon. Unlike my formal Sunday morning sermons, this one was informal, and I tried to tailor it to the audience of primarily young men. No need for flowery words or clever sayings. These young men needed an illustration, and the illustration had been roaring under them all morning.

“I’m very proud of all of you. Section III was a tough run, but we still have Section IV ahead of us. I see everyone made it through, and I assume everyone listened to their guides.” I glanced over and saw our professional guides, who nodded in agreement.

“I want to share an important section of scripture with you this morning. This first part begins in Romans chapter 7. I’m titling this devotional ‘O wretched man am I’.” That got several chuckles, as we all felt pretty wretched after five long hours negotiating the Chattooga. Several boys were exhausted and motionless, and I’d already lost two dads to an after-lunch siesta.

“As some of you already know, Romans is written by Paul. Many of you are getting old enough to face some huge temptations.” I picked up a sweetgum ball and looked at the hiding troublemakers in the back.

“God promises us a way of escape. You just have to watch for it. It’s always there. Sometimes the way is obvious and sometimes it’s subtle.”

“But,” I paused and tossed the sweetgum ball to the troubled young outcast. “But the character that He’s building inside you … well, that may be your only escape at times. Romans talks about renewing that spiritual character. You must renew your mind.”

I shared my thoughts for about twenty minutes and read through the entire chapter of Romans 7, explaining to the boys the many inner struggles they would encounter as they grew into manhood. I explained to them that even the great Apostle Paul knew the inner struggle between good and evil. He described it as the Law of Sin-a law we could not ignore or escape. But Romans does introduce a Law that can counteract it.

“Look behind you. See that great rapid we just came down? At some point, all these rapids have a point of no return.” I picked up a stone and threw it into some still waters.

“You probably noticed that your guides stopped in the calm waters to survey the rapids ahead. I like to call these waters the ‘pools of decision.’ We all face decisions everyday of our life. There is no doubt-you will face temptations just as sure as we will face more rapids this afternoon. You must decide how you will face them, how you will escape them. God will show you the way if you’re listening, if you’re paying attention.”

Our experience on the Chattooga formed a wonderful analogy. That great river was similar to life, drawing us and pulling us into some dangerous situations, leading us into some potentially messy outcomes. Just as nature slammed us with its violent, harmful forces, even so, fleshly forces and spiritual forces collided with us every day.

“You guys have seen and felt the forces of these waters. They are strong, and so you can’t fight them; you must outsmart them. Listen to your guide. He directs where the raft is going to go.”

“But, Pastor Clark …” One of the young men interrupted me. “But, Pastor Clark where is your guide? I noticed that your raft doesn’t have a guide.” Several Dads busted out in chuckles.

“Ah, you’re right, but I think you’re missing my point. I have experience with these things, this river. I’ve been down it countless times. What I’m trying to say is don’t follow where the currents lead you; follow your guide. Don’t follow this fleshly body and fleshly mind. Men, we all face this situation, this raging river inside us. There is a way out.”

As I concluded my talk, I decided to leave the boys hanging on verse 24 and one final question: “Would there be any escape from this quandary?” A quandary we are all born into.

“Okay, let’s pray and when we get to the end of Section IV you’ll hear…” I said in my best Paul Harvey voice, “… the rest of the story.”

2. Swept Away

After the prayer, Dave walked over as the sons and dads dispersed. “That was great, Clark. You’ve really got a way with words-how DO you do it?”

“When you’ve preached over a thousand sermons, and written a couple of books, I guess you learn a few things, but don’t let me fool you-I still have much more to learn.”

Dave turned and stared off into the river’s scenic valley. “Man, you couldn’t have asked for a better place to share a message.”

“Or a better group of guys,” I added.

Dave grabbed my shoulder, smiled and said, “Keep up the good work,” and the old man strode away with his signature swagger, though a little less energetic. Age and experience had taught him caution, a key to long term survival.

Luke strolled up as I retrieved my gear. The expression on his face primed my curiosity. “Dad?”

“Yeah, son.”

“Would it be okay if I ride with you and Jake?”

“No.”

“What … why?”

“Don’t go there. That’s not a good idea. You know we don’t have a guide. Look, do you see how high the water is? Jake and his granddad are both experienced rafters and it’s goin’ to be a tough section to run. No. I’d feel better if you stuck to your raft. You’ve got an experienced, trained guide, Luke, who knows what he’s doing.”

“But Dad … I really want to go with you. Like you said, you and Mr. Dave have run this river for the last ten years. Have I got to remind you that I’ve run this section the last three?”

Again, I denied his request, but he continued to beg, imploring me with many arguments. His persistence served him well. After hearing his constant pleading, I finally caved and allowed him to join us. I confess. Even after ten successful runs, I still felt nervous about this section IV. I had never ventured down this stretch with the water so high. The river’s anger ran violently that day, unable to be calmed or composed. A reckless stranger, a tireless bully, it was hell-bent on reeking havoc despite its endless beauty and technical appeal.

“Promise me this, son.”

“What’s that, dad?”

“You do what I tell you and no messing around. You hear me?”

“Yes sir, I promise.”

“I’m not kidding. This is going to be a tough run.”

“I know. I know.”

The professional guides imparted some last minute safety reminders as we began our next trek down the river. They guided the other rafts well and knew endless data and details about the river and its surroundings. They knew the name of each rapid, the location of each rock and what greeted us around each bend. Not one dangerous condition escaped their attention. Their skill and patience brought people home safely, and they made the trip ten times easier. So why didn’t I have one?

With muscles rested and appetites quelled, we pushed off once again to the watery roller coaster ride. The simple, but elegant blue raft carried us gracefully, sandwiched between joyous squeals and certain death. The carefree boys continued their frolicking behavior the entire time. Jake and Luke began to slap their paddles against the river’s surface, spraying the men in front with cold water waves. “Okay, Jake, time to get serious. We’ve got some big rapids coming up.” Dave gently prodded the boys to focus. I could tell he was nervous.

“Dad-look.” Luke pointed to a large tree laid over, jutting out from the bank.

“What do you see?”

“You don’t see it? Look toward the middle of that dead tree.”

Stretched out along the tree was a long dark form. It was a water moccasin. “I see him now. Let’s ease the raft back to the right. Yeah, he’s a big one. Good spot, son.”

We presently paddled down a calmer section of river and soaked in the sorted colors and diverse ecosystem which lined it. The edges were fringed with Mountain Laurel and Rhododendron, broken occasionally by huge oak trees partially toppled by an eroding bank. Like massive arms and hands, they caught and held runaway logs, dead fish, and a countless variety of river debris. They also served as resting spots for the ancient looking turtles which quickly slipped off as we approached. Even amidst that great escape, it was amazing how the cares of tomorrow would drift back into the mind.

“Luke, are you going to be ready for the youth band tomorrow morning?” I asked.

“Well, we practiced last night. How late do you think we’ll get back home?”

“Probably around 12:30 tonight.” I answered.

“I guess we’ll be ready. How about the sermon- you ready for that?”

“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll take care of the sermon-got it all up here.” I pointed to my temple and smiled.

“Dad, when are we going to hit the next rapid?”

“We should see it coming up pretty soon. I believe we’re getting close to Woodall Shoals.”

“What a view. Look up there.” Dave pointed to a bird circling in the distance.

“That a vulture?” I asked.

“No, I think it might be an eagle,” he said. “Yeah, Clark, I can see the rapids now-almost there. Get ready for some action, boys, and be careful.” Dave readied his hands on the paddle and solidly wedged his feet in the raft.

Ahead of us lay the final stretch of the mighty Chattooga. How awe inspiring. In seven miles, we would finish the course and float into Lake Tugalo’s still waters. Our joy swelled as the most exciting- and treacherous- section of the river pulled us to it. This part of the river had rapids ranging from III to V. Dangerous. Relentless.

The most dangerous part was a section called Five Falls. Over the years, several people had died in a watery grave along that run, and yet there we were, cheating death as so many rafters did every day. Death always seemed like a distant possibility in the heat of battle; in the sphere of today. We were invincible in the moment; it was our exploit, and nothing would stop us. Experience, wisdom, thrill, and the odds spurred us along with confident spirits, strengthening our resolve to conquer the challenge screaming back at us.

“Clark, I think we need to get over to the right.”

“No, I think we can stay to the left. With the water so high, I think we’ll just glide right over those rocks.”

“I don’t know. Sure looks different than before,” said Dave.

“Trust me- the left side is where we need to go.”

“If you say so.” Dave shook his head with an uncertain look, but then he leaned forward, ready to engage the rapid.

The raft glided smoothly over the rocks and descended into a three foot drop. No one was left dry, but we were all refreshed and recharged for the next set of rapids.

Determined, and proud, we pressed on, happily having the time of our lives. Fathers and sons bonded sportively on their memory-making machine. Our rubber vessel managed its way through Woodall Shoals and then on to Seven Foot Falls followed later by Deliverance Rock and Raven’s Chute. We glided through a few more rapids, advancing our way to the beginning of Five Falls. Pulling into a shallow pool, the group rested, and we needed to bail water from the raft. Jimmy White, our head deacon, was there, resting with the boys assigned to his charge.

He sat upon a large tan rock with feet tangling freely, and for some peculiar reason wore his helmet backwards. His yellow, unfastened life jacket gapped wide open, appearing to be two sizes too small for the big boned man. Jimmy was a gifted story teller and usually kept us in stitches the whole trip. He was our comic relief and … a very good man. He led our deacons well and served as a key player on our annual trip.

Each year, Jimmy was awarded the duty to supervise the rookies. True to his custom, he was sharing a spell-binding story with the group of new comers. Luke and Jake glanced back toward me with a silent snicker then jumped out to join the other boys. I knew it. Jimmy was scheming-conjuring up his special brand of tomfoolery.

Avoiding my gaze, he waxed eloquently as I paddled our raft into the still waters. “You boys need to keep a careful look out for the mountain men in these parts. They hide up there in the hills.”

Jimmy pointed slowly to the mountains with a serious expression. He timed every pause perfectly, and the inflection in his voice created suspense.

“Two years ago we were takin’ a break just like you’re doin’ now. One of the boys wandered off into the woods. We yelled and whistled for him … no answer. I searched high and low for that young man, but we never found him. But … I did stumble across a couple of those weird mountain men.”

I bit my tongue and tried to look away from the storyteller. Jimmy continued, “Those men were sadistic, dirty, toothless, stinky and I knew they were lyin’ to me. One of ‘em held a rifle, and the other carried a banjo … was wearin’ the missin’ kid’s hat. I very carefully eased off back into the woods and then ran as fast I could back to the raft. I never looked back. Gunshots sounded behind me, but I blazed a new trail that day.”

The boys peered at Jimmy with mouths open and eyes alert. The hook was set.

“You know boys, I don’t want to scare anybody, but they say that sometimes when you listen real hard you can still hear that boy yellin’ for help … I’m serious.”

He jumped down from the rock and looked sharply up the ridge. “What was that? Did you hear that? Is someone movin’ up there? Wait a minute … I see someone movin’ up there behind a tree.” Jimmy held the most genuine expression and pointed to a large oak tree. As if on cue, Luke started making banjo music with his mouth. A few of the dads doubled over with laughter, unable to hold it back any longer. Jake followed up with a long string of squealing sounds.

The younger boys began staring at their dad’s, confused. “What’s so funny? Was that just a joke or something?” One kid asked with a scornful, yet relieved look. When Jimmy finally calmed down from a laughing fit, he addressed the youth. “You mean you’ve never seen the movie Deliverance? You know, with Burt Reynolds?”

“What’s Deliverance, and who in the world is Burt Reynolds?” The kid sounded back with a dunce expression and a shrug. That created another laughing spell, and Jimmy roared so hard that his side began to hurt. The storytelling deacon had once again completed his mission. The hilarious moment tapered, and Jimmy along with his boys and their guide pushed off to tackle Five Falls.

We all watched nervously as their raft moved through the roaring obstacle course. Their guide was good, and he made it seem so easy from our vantage point. A piece of cake. They made it through the rapids with no trouble whatsoever. If Jimmy White could get through it, I knew I could as well. I stared over to Dave who swallowed hard and tried not to pierce my gaze. Finally, it was our turn. We each took a deep breath and paddled steadily to the first rapid.

“You ready for this?” I smiled at Luke and he nodded affirming with an excited grin. The raft crept along much the same way a roller coaster would do just as it was about to crest the peak. Each person sat poised, ready for my direction, counting on my experience to get us through.

My heart began pounding as I yelled calculated orders to the other six paddlers. Committed to the current’s strong will, we entered the Entrance Rapid okay, but something felt wrong. A terrible, unexpected dread seized me, and Dave’s previous concerns suddenly flooded my thoughts.

With the water level so high, I lost my bearings; the river upset my ability to think clearly. The raft stole my control and turned it over to the river. With no warning, the woods began to spin around us. Rocks swung into us, punching us like a skilled boxer; we were almost down for the count. Entering the Corkscrew, Murphy and his band of gremlins showed up. The raft spun uncontrollably and suddenly was upside down, spilling us all into the bubbling white torrent.

“Dave! … Dave!” I yelled as the cold waters pulled me under. Silence. Darkness. My body tumbled in a deathly whirlpool.

“Clark! … Clark! Grab hold. Clark! … Cla-” Silence again. The blurring surroundings held me captive, and I struggled to move my body toward the vague light. The walls of water were like the walls of a coffin. I felt doomed. Just then, my feet found a solid surface, and I sprang away with all my might.

Breaking the water’s surface, I reached again for Dave’s paddle. It slipped through my fingers as the river dragged me back down. This cycle went on two or three times.

Exhausted. Desperate. Enlightened. A sudden idea calmed my panic. Contrary to my natural tendencies, I dove deeper and escaped the hydraulic trap. The prior training and prior experience had paid off. A few seconds later, I popped up to the surface and managed to swim to the bank. I sat there, panting and coughing. We all watched as our raft was washed downstream. Then … real panic hit. My heart turned ice cold, realizing that Luke was no where in sight.

“Guys! Where’s Luke? Does anyone see Luke?” Their whole focus had been on saving me as I fought the river. We frantically searched the waters, trying to locate my sixteen year old son. “Dave! Hurry! We’ve got to get down stream-”got to find him. Maybe one of the kayakers spotted him and grabbed him.”

“Take it easy, Clark. I bet he’s down the river a ways just resting and waiting for us to pick him up.”

“I hope you’re right.” Of course, he wanted to encourage me, but there was no way he could hide the doubt embedded in his eyes.

Dave and I scrambled down the bank until we came to a group of kayakers who were holding our raft. One of the men told us they had spotted someone being swept away through Crack-in-the-Rock. A couple of kayakers chased after him. We leaped into the raft and paddled all the way to Dead Man’s Pool. At the pool’s edge, I noticed something familiar. A paddle. A helmet. Luke’s paddle. Luke’s helmet. A kayaker retrieved them and handed them over. The other men present just shook their heads and shrugged there shoulders. No sign.

We followed the river for half mile until it spilled into Lake Tugaloo’s calm waters. “He’s got to be here somewhere Dave. He had to make it this far- surely.”

“We got several people looking for him, Clark. Jimmy’s up there ahead of us somewhere. Don’t worry; we’ll find him.” The sun was making its way closer to the west, and we continued to paddle, following the edge of the still lake. I noticed that Dave had stopped paddling.

“What’s that?” Dave pointed in the distance. A hundred yards down along the lake’s bank, we spied a huddle of men. It was an unusual sight.

“Not good. That’s not good,” I nervously rattled off and began plowing the paddle into the water.

We drew closer, and I noticed someone lying flat on the ground. One man hovered over the body doing chest compressions. Several others were kneeling, and one man was talking into a radio. Jimmy White stood on the bank, staring at me with a downcast face. Suddenly, a terrible fear seized me. This ominous gathering of men could relay only one meaning. It was Luke.

“No! … No! … Luke! … Oh, dear God, not my son! … Not my son!” I leaped from the raft, throwing my helmet and life jacket aside. Frantically, I dashed to my teenage son’s side and began to weep. My chest felt like it was in a vise, and I couldn’t breathe. Taking his hand, I stared at him in horror and disbelief. His skin was deathly blue, and his body lay lifeless in the sand. The exhausted kayaker continued for several minutes, attempting to bring Luke back to life, but he was gone. No more.

I grabbed my son close to my bosom, crying incessantly. My friend Dave tried to console me, but all to no avail. Nothing and no one could calm my soul at that moment. For an hour, I wept like I’d never wept in my life. The flowing stream of tears seemed infinite. My life force was slowly being drained away.

Memories suddenly flashed through my mind. He lay there crying in his crib at the hospital. Then followed an endless series of firsts. I saw his first steps, his first birthday, his first fish, his first hunt, his first car. On and on, those cherished mental pictures saturated my thoughts. Suddenly, a man in uniform wearing a stethoscope interrupted my trance. The medics had arrived to take my son away, and so we began that awful despair filled trip back home.

Empty. Confused. Devastated. That day a darkness and hopelessness fell over my soul and struck my faith a severe blow. From that point forward, my life would never be the same. How I wished I could have paddled back in time and prevented that moment from ever happening. The Angel of Death visited us that day.

A formless mist appeared above the lake’s surface as the sun’s departing rays ended the day on a cruel note. With glassy eyes, I stared blankly into the growing gloom.

Where was God? Why would He allow my son to be taken from me that way, unexpectedly, before his time? Luke had so much potential, so much promise. A young man destined for great things. The invested time and memories with my precious son seemed futile now. Cut short. From that day forward my life would change course. Life itself would become like that river-full of unpredictable rage, unforgiving, merciless.
Copyright 2010 Stephen Johnson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.